


Running Is The Best Medicine

by MsDay



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Airplanes, Gen, Possibly Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 10:10:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20993093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsDay/pseuds/MsDay
Summary: Peter decides to leave Beacon Hills after his resurrection. After learning about werewolves, the sheriff decides that's not such a bad idea. Too bad Stiles disagrees.





	Running Is The Best Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry. The IM conversation is... not very good. I text in whole sentences with proper spelling and punctuation. I tried.

Today was a good day. Today was a really good day. First, Stiles woke up ten minutes before his alarm, which gave him time to make bacon and eggs for breakfast. Second, he passed a broken down, smoking, silver Porsche on his way to school. Third, Harris was out sick so he got an A on the pop quiz the substitute gave them. Fourth, Lydia forgot her pen in history, so the pink, sparkly just-in-case pen that Stiles has been carrying around all year finally got some use. Sure, she had snorted when he’d handed her the pen, but he knows, Knows that it was a thank-you-Stiles-can-I-ride-your-face kind of snort. He knows.

The cruiser is in the driveway when he pulls up, so he calls a “Honey, I’m home!” on his way up to his room.

“Hey, come here a sec,” his Dad calls from the kitchen. In his everything-is-fine-and-you-have-nothing-to-worry-about voice. Naturally Stiles is worried.

“Sure,” he trails off as he goes over everything he’s done in the past two weeks that would make his Father mad. There’s a lot.

He was prepared for a yelling at, he was prepared for ‘I’m very disappointed in you’, he was prepared for ‘you’re grounded until you’re 80’. He was not prepared for Peter fucking Hale sipping coffee at his kitchen table. With his Dad. 

Stiles forces himself to step into the kitchen, “hey, Pops, who’s your friend?” He drops his backpack onto the free seat.

They both stare at him. “I told him.” Hello panic, my old friend. I’ve come to talk with you again...

“Everything.” That’s his Dad’s disappointed voice. Shit.

He chuckles. “What do you mean ‘everything’? What’s there to tell?” And Peter fucking shifts. Right there in his kitchen, in front of his Dad. His Dad who isn’t reacting at all. Because he’s seen this already. Because Peter told him everything.

He pulls out the chair and sits on his backpack, then nudges it out of the way with his butt and sits on the chair instead. “So...” He’s not sure which of the approximately one hundred and fifty millionty bagillion questions he wants to ask first. “How was your day?” He brings his shoulders up to his ears; he’s not sure if he’s shrugging or hiding, but whatever works. 

“You know that I love you, right?” and everything slows.

“Yeah, Dad, of course.” He feels like he should put his hand on his Dad’s. Should he put his hand on his Dad’s? Is this a hand on hand situation?

Before he can make up his mind, his Dad continues, “I just want you to be safe.” Sex talk? No, not a sex talk. He really hopes it’s not a sex talk. “You- You’re still human, right?” He nods and his Dad visibly relaxes, “Scott is, well,” he looks around, at the doors and windows. It’s ok, Scott’s not there. “Look, I love the kid, but he’s never been the brightest bulb in the pack, and,” He scratches his forehead, obviously trying to find the right words.

“Scott is a moron and he’s going to get all of you killed,” Peter, who has unshifted, cuts in. And who the fuck is he to say that?

“Scott is ten times the Alpha you were!” Peter just raises his eyebrows at him. “He never killed a family member.” He hisses because fuck him. The jerk. Stiles 1, Peter 0.

Peter is calm when he responds, “not for lack of trying.” That was one time, but. Yeah. Stiles 1, Peter 1. 

“Boys,” his Dad cuts in, “we’re getting off topic.” He turns to Stiles, “Stiles, it’s not safe here. You could-” he clears his throat, “it’s not safe for you.” Maybe this is a hand on hand situation after all.

Stiles frowns, “what are you saying?” He has a horrible thought, “I’m not going to boarding school, right? Please tell me I’m not going to boarding school!” He knows how unlikely it is, but he’s heard the horror stories of what kinds of unsavoury things happen to boys in boarding schools.

“Relax, kid. I’m not sending you to a boarding school. I still remember the power point presentation from two years ago.” His Dad sighs and rubs at his forehead. 

Stiles does relax, though not because he was told to, “are you sure? I still have it, if you want to see it again.” 

“I want to see it.” Comes from the side of the table Stiles is trying to pretend doesn’t exist. 

His Dad shakes his head a little harder than necessary, “it’s ok, I don’t need to see it; you’re not going to a boarding school.” He looks over at Peter. So much for pretending he isn’t there. “Peter has, uh.” His face does that thing it does when Stiles says ‘I have an idea’.

“I’m leaving Beacon Hills.”

Stiles lights up at that, “great, see you never. Forget to write. Let the door hit you on the way out.” 

His Dad sighs as Peter smirks his very smarmy smirk. Is his Dad seeing how creepy this guy is? Why is he even here? Peter leans over the side of the table and Stiles hears a zipper being pulled. He sits back up with a piece of paper in his hand. After a quick scan, he holds it out. Stiles eyes flit down to the paper but he doesn’t want to touch it. At all. 

Peter raises his eyebrows so Stiles crosses his arms. Can’t take the paper with no hands. Ha, take that. “Stiles, just take the damn paper,” his Dad sounds put upon, and yeah, maybe he’s acting the three-year-old, but what else is he supposed to do? “Stiles!” He sounds mad, now, so he takes the stupid paper.

It turns out to be two papers. Stiles looks down at it. It takes him a second to makes sense of the strings of numbers, dates, times and places on it. It’s flight information, two options. “So you’re flying to Venice and/or Paris. Why are you showing me this?” He puts the papers on the table and leans back in his chair.

“We’re flying to Venice and/or Paris. Whichever you’d prefer.” And he says it so matter-of-factly that Stiles wants to laugh. The soup is hot, the soup is cold, we’re going to Venice, we’re going to Paris. He snorts instead.

He turns to his Dad, looking for something to indicate that this is some sort of joke. Cause it is. It has to be. This is a joke, right? Except his Dad isn’t laughing. He isn’t chortling, guffawing, cackling, singgering, snickering, snorting or chuckling. He isn’t even smiling. “Dad.” 

His Dad rubs his brow, “werewolves, Stiles.” He suddenly has a very clear understanding of the word ‘beseeching’. 

He tries to match his Dad’s tone when he says, “homicidal maniac who bit and turned Scott against his will during his revenge murder spree, Dad.” He continues quickly, “also, he killed his niece. And he tried to kill us.” His Dad looks to Peter who frowns like he has no idea what Stiles is talking about. “In the school?” 

“Oh,” and Peter laughs, the asshole, “I wasn’t trying to kill you. I was trying to scare you.” Of course he thinks that’s better. “Do you really think that you would be alive if I’d wanted you dead?”

“Are you hearing this?” he turns on his Dad, angry now.

He looks so beaten down, exhasuted, like he could sleep for a week and still wake up tired. “Stiles,” he takes a deep breath, “I just found out that not only are werewolves a thing but so are werewolf hunters and your best friend is trying to reenact Romeo and Juliet. Do you know how that story ends? The lovebirds weren’t the only ones who died. I don’t want you to end up like...” Now he feels bad, kind of, his Dad is trying to speak to him in references, which is a good tactic, really, but only when you remember all the players.

“Mercutio,” Peter supplies, very unhelpfully.

Stiles turns on him, “I am not Mercutio,” he snaps. Peter gives him the _Really?_ eyebrows. “Shut up.” He turns back to his Dad, “I’m not going to die.” Peter huffs and Stiles ignores him. “Dad-”

“No, Stiles, I know what you’re going to say. You can handle yourself? You fell up the stairs on your way to the bathroom last night.” Peter snorts. “You can take care of yourself? With what training? Not the same training the hunters have; not even close. You can protect yourself? With what weapons? That old bat you Stole from Melissa? You need to give that back, by the way.” 

He feels like he’s just been slapped. And punched. And kicked in the balls for good measure. And the look on his Dad’s face is probably the same as the one on his own. His voice is hoarse, like he’s been crying or yelling when he says, “so you’re just going to give me to the first psychopath who comes along? I guess it’s a good thing Gerard Argent didn’t get here first.” With that he stands up, leaves his backpack on the floor and goes up to his room. 

He gets a text halfway up the stairs, _I left a suitcase on your bed_, a second later, _pack what you can’t buy in Europe_. He’d rather take his chances in boarding school. Well, maybe.

Two hours later sees Stiles standing beside Peter, suitcase in hand, as Peter checks them in on a machine that he’s pretty sure is supposed to spit out movie tickets and popcorn vouchers. After some tapping, Peter says, “so where are we going?” without looking over at him. Stiles doesn’t respond. “Venice or Paris?” 

Fuck this. “Prague.” Peter turns to him, then. “I want to go to Prague.” Peter rolls his eyes and turns back to the machine.

He doesn’t have to go through with this. He could stick a spoon in his underwear. The TSA agent who searches him will know that means he’s leaving the country against his will. They won’t let him leave with Peter. He should do it, it would serve them both right.

That makes him sad. Sort of. He knows that his Dad is just trying to keep him safe, but he’s doing it in the worst possible way. He just gave the crown jewels to the evil witch for safe keeping. He follows Peter to a counter and stands off to the side while he talks to the lady there. Sure, he could tell them that he’s being spirited away in the night. At 6 PM. But then what? He’s 17. His Dad won’t be able to tell anyone why he’s being made to leave so CPS will step in. Great. So he’ll end up in a foster home. His odds would be much worse in a foster home than in a boarding school. 

Peter taps his shoulder and he grabs his bag and follows him to the queue. This sucks. He hates this. He hates Peter, would love to see him get taken away in cuffs. He loves his Dad, though. He’s all he has left. Of course he wants to keep Stiles safe, he gets that. He just hates this. Scott is going to get himself killed without Stiles there to be the voice of common sense. A lot of lives would be a lot better if Peter had just stayed dead. 

The next few hours are a blur. With nothing to occupy his mind, it wanders to worst case scenarios, horrible images of what may be, and everything that’s happened since the asshole sitting next to him bit Scott. He doesn’t resurface until Peter taps his arm, says “come on,” and walks away, expecting Stiles to follow. He does and hates himself for it. 

Peter hands him a quarter and it’s only then that he realizes that they’re standing in front of a wall of payphones. “Our flight is going to start boarding soon, call your Father. Turn off your cell phone.” 

He looks down at the quarter in his hand; at the light glinting off of the dead former president’s face. “I don’t want to call him.” He wants to see how Peter will react to that, wants to see if he’ll get mad, threaten him or grab him. 

“OK,” Peter takes the coin back, “go sit over there, then,” he gestures to the waiting area and puts the coin in the phone. “You still have to turn off your phone.” He dials Stiles’ house, reading the numbers off of a post it. Stiles doesn’t run, but it’s a near thing. 

He lets his surroundings fade out again as he goes back into his head. He wonders if this is for the rest of his life. Does his Dad expect him to stay with Peter forever? Will he be allowed to go home for holidays or his birthday or his Dad’s? He’ll be 18 in less than a year, legally, he can go home then and no one can stop him. Will Scott still be alive when he gets there? Will anyone? He’ll probably never see Lydia again and that thought makes his heart clench. He’ll never be able to treat her like the queen she is, never be able to extend his hand and say ‘my lady’, she’ll never take his hand and respond with ‘my lord’. They’ll never get married out of college, buy a house, have 2.5 kids and get a spaniel named Spot. 

“Stiles.” He jerks as he comes back to the present. “They’ve called our flight.” Peter walks away again. Stiles trails after him again. 

He’s tired and sad and he knows he can’t win this. He lets the edges go fuzzy and doesn’t think about anything too hard. He takes his ques from Peter, goes where Peter tells him, puts his bag where he’s told, sits where he’s told, doesn’t understand the question he’s been asked but says no to it anyway. Then he has to grip the armrests and take deep and even breaths. As much as he hates Peter, if he throws up on him, he’ll still have to sit beside him for however many hours it will take to get wherever Peter has decided they’re going and the smell will be horrible. 

There’s a hand on his back, then there’s a voice, “here, just in case.” There’s a tall lady in a gold hijab beside him, handing him a few paper bags, one of which is open. “Nervous flyer?” Stiles doesn’t respond. He’s never flown before. “Your stomach should settle when we get in the air then you sip this. It’ll help,” she hands him a ginger ale. “Here, I’ll come around before we start our descent and tell you when to take this,” she hands him a foil packet as well. “It wont do you any good now, so don’t take it yet, OK?” He gapes at her and nods like a bobble head. At least that’s what it feels like with his head sloshing the way it is. She goes to the back of the cabin and Stiles looks down at the packet, it’s a brand name anti-nauseant. At least, he thinks it is, he’s never heard of this brand before. Probably. It’s not exactly in English.

Just like the lady said, he feels better when they’re in the air. He doesn’t need the ginger ale to help his stomach, but he drinks it anyway, because it’s a carbonated sugar beverage and he’s a teenager. She comes back to offer him some food, he takes the roast beef, and she shows him what options he has on the not-quite-mini TV in his little cubicle thing. He opts for social media, because apparently that’s a thing that can happen.

He has a bunch of increasingly more frantic messages from Scott, asking where he is and why he’s not helping with their econ project. Luckily, he’s still online, so Stiles gives him the run down. _Peter told Dad erthng. on a plane. going to europe._

The response is immediate, _Duuuuuude!!! im gunna kill him!!! y didnt u call?_

Stiles smiles, it’s a nice thought, but Scott doesn’t even kill bugs. _no time. Dad was all werewolves Stiles :’’( nd Peter ws all Europe Stiles >:D then I was on a plane._

The next response takes a few minutes, so Stiles uses the shoe box of a bathroom and nearly looses his ass when the toilet sucks all the air out of the room as he flushes. He won’t be using that again. Not even if he suddenly and very desperately needs to use the shower in the corner. Stiles rolls his eyes. Rich people.

There’s a message waiting, when he gets back, _ru going to poland_

_think were goingto dubai_

_ur goin ot india?_

Oh, Scott, you’re so cute, _thats Mumbai. Dubai is in middle east_, he sends.

Scott’s messages come in the same time Stiles sends his, _u think?_, then _we?_, then _oh_.

Here we go, Stiles cracks his knuckles the way movie hackers do and gets to typing, _ Im w/ Peter. he had tickets 4 Venice n Paris but the staff r Muslim n the dont puke pills thelady gve me r in Arabic n the wall says Emirates as in United Arab Emirates as in middle east as in Dubai_. He thinks for a second, _dont know nay other UAE cities_.

The conversation with Scott peters off after his initial protestations and a few more decelerations of intent to commit murder, this time directed at Peter, as well. It’s always nice to know that someone has your back through thick and thin.

The lady comes back and Stiles gets some headphones so he can watch a movie or something. There’s not much available, so he puts on the first thing on the list that he hasn’t seen. It’s a french movie. In french. He picks the next one. A buddy comedy about a wannabe cop and his best friend who refuses to grow up and be an adult. Riveting content. Really.

He decides to sleep, which does kill a lot of time. Not enough, though. When he wakes up, he puts on another movie. A period drama about classist and misogynistic heteronormativity. And then the upper middle class white people rode off into the sunset and she gave him five children while waiting on him hand and foot to avoid regular beatings. Romantic. 

Luckily, he doesn’t have to watch the whole thing, halfway through, the lady comes over to tell him that he needs to put it away because they’re about to begin their descent and he should take the anti-nausants now. 

He does as he’s told and the next hour is just following directions until they’re released into the wild. Breathe heavily into a paper bag, wait to disembark, disembark, go to baggage claim, wait for baggage, claim baggage, make a b-line for the door, look around, be confused. 

He turns to Peter, “where are we?” 

He doesn’t say anything, but does a chin-point to something on Stiles’ other side. It’s a sign, a ‘Vítejte v Praze’ sign. He turns back to Peter and shrugs at him. He sighs, “welcome to Prague.”

“Wait, what?” Stiles turns back to the sign, as though it might now be in English. On closer inspection, he can see the small print off to the side, and there, about halfway down a list is “Welcome to Prague”. He can make out enough of the other ones to tell that they all say the same thing, but in different languages. “I thought we were going to Dubai.” 

Peter shrugs, “you said you wanted to go to Prague.”

**Author's Note:**

> How many outdated but still totally awesome references did you find?


End file.
